


In Another Life

by SpaceIdiot



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Endeavour (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bright is on vacay dealing with the loss of his wife, Bright's time in india, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Friends to Lovers, George and Bright know each other, M/M, Moving In Together, Past Abuse, Past Lives, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Poirot is getting old and also on vacay, Post Season 6, Stolen Kisses, and he brings George with him, childhood flashbacks, period-typacal aphobia, poirot is a accepting father figure who loves everyone, there is a scene with homophobs in the 3rd chapter where they're super awful, two asexual idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-08-23 21:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20222116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceIdiot/pseuds/SpaceIdiot
Summary: Bright is still suffering the loss of his wife, and lost and confused, by the order of his doctor, he decides to take some time off and go on holiday. While there he rekindles a relationship with an old friend, and things begin to happen that he never would have expected.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so to explain a little of the way I talk about all of the main characters in this story these are my headcanons  
Poirot is a heteromantic asexual  
George is a homoromantic asexual  
and Bright is a demiromantic asexual.  
I headcanon 90% of characters as asexual you can't stop me.
> 
> I am, therefore, exploring aphobia and homophobia in the 20's and 60's. Some of it get's a little rough (specifically in the 3rd chapter) so be forewarned. I didn't enjoy writing some of it, honestly, but real people experienced this and I wanted to explore it's negative effects on people in hopes to prevent this kind of thing happening in the future.

George took the pills from the bag and carefully ordered them, in two perfectly straight lines, on his employers bedside table. He looked at the little old man as he slept peacefully, hands tucked up under his chin, and sighed. At least he was sleeping. He turned and got about the rest of his work. Mr. Poirot would be awake within the hour, and everything must be ready for him. Trousers neatly hung over the back of the chair in the corner; a set of cufflinks next to a bow tie, which both matched perfectly the vest that was carefully hung on the rack next to the chair, along with a jacket. Underclothes were folded, quite perfectly, and placed on the vanity. Next to that he opened a little case and placed out, using his thumb to measure distance, each and every little comb and bottle which the little old man would later use to wax his mustache. He looked around the room.  
“Perfect,” he said, his deep, rich voice accented perfectly. He gave a sharp nod, and left the room.  
It was not strictly necessary, everything that he had done that morning, but Mr. Poirot was not doing well these days, and George liked to have things just so for him - even more than usual. He’d been with Mr. Poirot for nearly 40 years. It would have been 40 too, had there not been that little space in between where… he shook his head, rolled his shoulders, and blew hair threw his nose. No need to think about that. Once he’d reached his own bathroom, he straightened his tie and brushed the curls out of his hair. When he was younger he had worn it curly, but the fashion had gone out years ago, and he found straight, brushed back look made him appear more professional. He did a little bit of this and that, until he heard sturing in the other room.  
The door to Poirot’s room swung open, after a rap of the knuckles and a murmured, “entrer.”  
“Good morning, Georges,” Poirot beamed gently from his seat at his vanity. He was dressed. Though George noticed that the cufflinks he had set out still sat on the chair in the corner. Arthritis. It made it difficult. He’d seen his father go through exactly the same thing. He knew Poirot was far too proud to ever ask for help he actually needed, so he casually walked over and picked up the cufflinks.  
“Good morning, Sir,” he replied. “Here, allow me to put on your cufflinks.”  
“Oh there is no need for that,” Poirot replied, flushing.  
“It’s my pleasure, Sir,” answered the valet.  
“If you insist, who is Poirot to say otherwise?”  
The older man held out one hand at a time, as George’s nimble fingers did their work.  
“There you are, quite smart, I think,” said George, looking at Poirot’s complete look.  
“I can always trust you, Georges,” Poirot smiled, “To pick out the outfit that is most excellent!”  
George glanced at the side table. “Not taken your pills yet, Sir?” he said lightly, “Tisk, tisk, the doctor said promptly at 9 o’clock, and it’s ten after!”  
Poirot waved a hand. “This doctor of yours, I do not know that he knows what he is doing.”  
George picked up the pills, and the glass of water he had poured out beside it. “He has kept me healthy all my life,” he said, “And he’s a good man too. Now take these.” He held out the pills and the glass of water. Poirot made a face, but did as instructed.  
“If you don’t need anything else,” he said, “I might head down to the dining room to see if I can find something to eat. Would you like yours sent up?”  
“Yes, please, George,” nodded Poirot.  
The valet mimicked his employer, though the nod was straighter and sharper, and headed downstairs. He went first to find a waiter to take up two soft boiled eggs - he stressed that they must be exactly the same size - toast, cut in squares, jam, raspberry, and coffee, decaffeinated, up to Mr. Poirot’s room. As the waiter walked off, George grabbed his sleeve, saying that he need not mention that the coffee was decaffeinated when he took it up.  
Once the first waiter had gone, he took in a breath, looked around, and found a seat. He disregarded his stomach’s desire for a full english, and ordered two slices of bran toast, dry, a cup of fruit salad, and a black coffee - caffeinated. When it came, he munched rather mournfully, his nose making him fully aware of the other guest’s meals, which sizzled and oozed and cast his mind back to that one particular maiden aunt that everyone seems to have, who gives little children helpings of food that are considered far larger than recommended. He choked down his dry toast with a gulp of his black coffee. One thing he could not give up was his caffeinated coffee, despite what his doctor had told him. Heart health and all that. Some might have thought it hypocritical that he gave his employer decaffeinated but drank caffeinated himself, but he was paid to take care of Mr. Poirot. He was not breaking any contracts if he did not take care of himself in the same manner.  
The meal passed uneventfully, and he was just about to order his third cup of coffee when something caught his ear. A voice. A voice he thought he recognized and yet - he turned around, peering about, trying to get a look at where the voice was coming from.  
“Toast and tea,” it said, “No thank you, that’s all. And in future,” it continued, “Please have it brought up to my room.”  
He knew it, but it couldn’t be…  
“Puli?” he found himself saying, standing up from his chair. It had to be him. No one else had a voice like that.  
“Alley?” came the voice again.  
George knew that time. He whirled about and saw him - a little man, not quite 5 foot 6 inches, a narrow frame, straight and neatly dressed.  
“Good god, Puli Bright!” George found himself booming, at least fifty percent of his normal reserve gone out the window.  
“Alley Cat George,” the little man gasped, darting towards him with hand extended.  
The two clasped hands warmly.  
“Good Lord, what on earth are you doing here?” Bright asked.  
“I could say the same of you,” replied George, “Last I heard you were still in India.”  
“It’s been some time since I’ve been there, now,” the little man said. “I’m working in Oxford now.”  
“Police still?”  
“Police still. And you, back to being a valet?”  
George nodded. “I’m working for a Belgian gentleman, you may have heard of him, he’s a private detective.”  
“Not Poirot?” Bright asked, wide eyed.  
“Yes, Poirot,” George smiled.  
“Oh you should hear the higher up talking about him!”  
“They don’t like him, I should imagine?”  
“Not a bit, I’m afraid,” said Bright.  
“I can’t say that I am surprised,” responded George. “Here, come and sit with me for breakfast.”  
“I don’t want to keep you-”  
“Not at all!” George insisted. “We need to catch up - where’s your wife? She should join us.”  
The smile suddenly faded from Bright’s lips. He seemed, in a single moment, to go two shades paler and age at least another five years. George caught the look on his friend’s face. It was not subtle.  
“Oh, Puli, what’s wrong?” he put a hand on Bright’s shoulder. The contact made something stir inside him. He was not a physical man, and he suddenly became aware of the fact that he had not intentionally touched another human being, besides of course Mr. Poirot and the occasional handshake, in nearly 20 years. He removed his hand. “Sit down,” he said gently, pulling out a chair. Bright did as instructed.  
“My wife,” he said, “She er… she passed away.”  
“I’m sorry,” George said almost mechanically, his heart knotting inside him. He remembered her well, from the old days, in India. She’d been beautiful then, or so everyone said. He’d never particularly remarked upon the fact at the time. The natives had been the one to give Bright the nickname Puli, after the affair with the tiger, but she’d been the one who made it popular among the other soldiers. She’d always been very popular among the soldiers herself, though not in the appropriate way. Puli had been a retiring sort of young man, and he never asked her to stay in with him when she wanted to go out. He was one of the only married men in camp, which mystified many of the more traditionally handsome soldiers, tall, strapping, brazen - not at all the type of chaps he preferred to spend his time with. He couldn’t count the times he and Puli had spent evenings in while everyone else went out on the town. He’d almost forgotten how close the two of them had been, all those years ago. What had it been, 30? No, it must have been longer. Nearly 50 years. He remembered now, the things he thought he would never forget. God, perhaps it was true that time healed all wounds.  
As George was thinking, so was Bright. He wondered why Alley had asked about his wife. He didn’t remember him ever showing any particular favor towards her back in the day. He was probably the only man in the camp who didn’t. But he knew why that was. Alley was not quite like other men. But then of course neither was he. He’d made a pretty good show of it, over the years. That desire to fit in was far stronger in him than it ever had been in Alley, not that Alley had been open about things to anyone, not even him. But he knew all the same. One can only spend so many hours with another person without learning a thing or two about them.


	2. 2

Neither of them quite noticed the moment of silence that had passed between them. Seeing each other again after so many years… it was like all that had happened before was part of another life. Not the one they were living now. Proper, upright, conservative, perhaps a bit strict. Church every holiday, no loud music, the top button of one’s color only undone when working outside, or occasionally in the comfort of one’s own home. “Normal.”  
“My,” Bright said after a long breath, “How things have changed.”  
“They have, haven’t they?” George mused, looking at his slice of mostly eaten toast, which now lay looking, if possible, even less appetizing than before.  
The little man felt a desire to change the subject. “Your Mr. Poirot, he’s good to you, yes?”  
George nodded. “Very,” he said.  
“I’m glad to hear it. You always deserved better than you got. He...knows, I suppose?”  
George sent a sharp glance at his old friend. “I don’t know what you mean,” he hissed.  
Bright shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have -” he paused, “I meant… I’m just trying to say -”  
George stood up suddenly, nearly knocking his spoon off the side of the table. “Whatever it is, please don’t. I need to go check on Mr. Poirot, if you’ll excuse me.”  
George turned around and walked away, something hot and wet rising in his eyes. It couldn’t be tears. He refused to cry. Men did not cry. His knuckles turned white with the pressure of his closed fists as he sprinted up the stairs.  
Bright watched after him mournfully. God, he’d bollocksed that one up properly. All he’d wanted to say was that he’d changed, since they had last spoken. It had been a long time ago. Things were different back then - he’d been different. Oh so very different. He was younger, an idiot half the time, if truth came out. He’d certainly been an idiot that night. That old fear - fear of people thinking him queer, in every sense of the word. He remembered how desperate he’d been at a young age to assert his “traditional manliness,” despite the fact that nearly every inch of it tasted like piss on his lips. He heard the jokes people made about him - his manner of speech, his gentleness, his love for the arts - even after he fell in love and got married, though they lessoned, they didn’t go away. George had always been safe. They got on well and he never felt any pressure to perform around him. But when things came out about George - he stopped, laughing mournfully at his mind’s own choice of words. He’d been so scared. What if others thought - worse, what if his wife had thought…?   
Despite Alley’s eagerness to talk to him, moments ago, he feared their conversation coming around to their parting so many years ago. He thought getting around to it right off the bat might help take the sting out of it. Clearly not. A particular four letter word which he generally kept only for very extreme circumstances bounced around in his head, edging it’s way towards his lips. He shook his head.  
“Shit,” he said instead. He got a surprised glance from a passing waitress, and flushed. He gave up on breakfast, he wasn’t hungry now, and went outside instead.  
By the time George had reached his employers room, he had blinked away the dampness in his eyes. The tell-tale redness, though, despite his efforts, was still visible. He went inside to find Poirot working carefully at a tower made of playing cards. Despite his age and arthritis, his hands were still remarkably steady.  
“Ah, Georges,” Poirot smiled. “Where have you been? You took the extra time with your breakfast?”  
George hesitated. “Y-yes,” he said, though he knew Poirot would see right through that in a moment.  
“All is well?” the little man asked without looking up.  
“Perfectly.”  
George busied himself with clearing up the breakfast dishes and ringing for a waiter.  
“Please do not lie to Poirot, Georges, you know that it does not work.”  
George looked up and caught the intense glance from Poirot’s bright green eyes.  
“What has happened, my friend?” the old man asked gently.  
“It’s nothing, Sir, that need bother you,” George replied.  
“But it is not a bother, mon ami. Please, tell Papa Poirot.”  
George couldn’t help but smile. Poirot only used the prefix “papa” when he was trying to get someone to trust him. Nine times out of ten it worked. And despite the fact that George knew exactly what Poirot was doing, somehow, it worked on him too. The little man’s charm was not lost on many, and especially not on George.  
“An old friend,” he said at last. “I happened to come across him in the dining room.”  
“You do not seem as happy as one would think with seeing an old friend,” Poirot remarked.  
“We parted on… less than friendly terms, many years ago.”  
“Ah, I am sorry,” Poirot said. “He did not approve of the object of your affections?”  
“He was one,” George fairly choked. He had no idea why he was saying this. To Poirot of all people. A staunch Catholic. He’d often wondered why Poirot employed him at all, once he’d found out. But he knew he could never keep a secret from the great Hercule Poirot, so he had not even tried. “He did not know, though,” George continued. “We were close friends. In truth it’s all I wanted. All I’ve ever wanted. He was married, after all. I would have been happy to merely live my days out being his friend. No one’s ever seemed to be able to understand that I don’t… I don’t feel things the same way others do.” George turned away from his employer. What on earth was he doing? How incredibly unprofessional. Perhaps he’d spent too many years with the same Sir. He was getting too familiar. But after a lifetime of keeping things inside, he was sick and tired of it. He had to let it out.  
Poirot tilted his head. “Ah ma cher,” he said gently. “I think more understand than you realize.”  
George glanced back and Poirot.  
“You have wondered, perhaps, why Poirot, he has never married?”  
George found himself shrugging. “I always assumed it was because you wanted to devote your life to your work.”  
Poirot smiled. “A good excuse, I used it myself for a time.”  
“I don’t understand, Sir.”  
“I did fall in love, once, a long time ago now.”  
“The Countess.”  
“Yes. The Countess.” A dampness seemed to come into Poirot’s eyes. “But Poirot, he cannot give what is expected in marriage. That sort of love, it is not in his nature.”  
George shook his head. “You don’t mean -”  
“We are the same, in many ways, mon ami.” Poirot’s eyes twinkled comfortingly. “Though I think if I were to choose, I would prefer to live out my life in the company of a woman, rather than a man.”  
George couldn’t help but feel ever so slightly insulted =.  
“Ah, no offence was meant!” Poirot interjected.  
“None taken,” George smiled.  
Poirot stood up and walked over to George, putting his hand on his. “I think that you ought to talk to this friend of yours,” he said. “And work out your differences. If he cannot accept you as you are, then it is not your loss, but his. And you may move on. But he may understand more than you think.”  
“He didn’t in India,” George huffed.  
“People change. Perhaps he has.”  
George shook his head. Perhaps he had, but he wasn’t sure he was willing to risk it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Bright and George's last meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I writing an ace romance right? I dunno I'm trying!

India, 1920  
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” the little man pulled his hand back from the stove, wincing in pain.  
“Steady on, old boy,” the taller man said, “Are you alright?”  
“I burnt my hand,” he said, looking at the white and red mark on his palm.  
“Hold on,” responded George, “I’ll get the aloe from the back garden.” He darted out, and was back in a second, a chunk of the spiky green plant in his hand. “Hold out your hand, Puli,” he said.  
The little man did as instructed, and George carefully squeezed the clear salve onto the burn. Bright winced.  
“Ouch,” he said pointedly.  
“If you’d hold still!” George held onto his friend’s hand tighter. It was, he couldn’t help but notice, remarkably soft for a soldier’s hand. “There,” he said after a moment. “Now let me get some gauze to wrap that up.” He did as he said he would, and sent Bright to go get a drink. When Puli returned, sipping at a glass of gin and lime, he found George bending over the pot on the stove. “If you’d just added a bit more curry powder it would have been perfect.”  
Bright smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”  
George turned and looked at Bright. “How’s it feel?”  
“Not too bad,” Bright nodded.  
“Dinner then?”  
“Dinner.”  
Bright got out the plates with his good hand, and George began to scoop out the rice, pouring a generous amount of the cubed chicken and bright orange sauce alongside it.  
“Your wife’s missing out,” he said. “You’re really becoming a very good cook, if I do say so myself.”  
“I learned everything from you,” Bright grinned, sitting down and putting his napkin on his lap. “But she eats my cooking every night; she’s probably thankful to get something different for a change.”  
“Out on the town again?” George scooped a spoonful of rice into his mouth.  
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Bright said, not looking up.  
“No it’s just…” he hesitated. “I wonder sometimes why you spend so much time apart.”  
“We’ve got different personalities,” Bright said, “It works well for us. We enjoy each other’s company but…”  
“But?”  
“Does a man need to spend every waking hour with his wife?” he asked sharply.  
George felt somewhat alarmed. “No, no of course not,” he said, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”  
Bright shook his head. “No, I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m just a bit… sensitive about the topic. When I returned to England last month my step father took the piss out of me about her, and why we didn’t have any children yet.”  
“You’ve only been married four years, what does he expect?”  
“I know! It’s not that we don’t want children, we both do but…”  
“No rush,” George interjected.  
“Exactly!” Bright’s face lit up. “That’s exactly what I said. No rush. We’ve got our whole lives. I didn’t even want to get married, really, until I met her.” He leaned back in his chair, a sort of glassy expression going over his face. “I remember the first time I saw her, across the lawn at a party. All these men were trying to get her attention, light a cigarette for her, and she looked unhappy. I walked over and… she paid attention to me, oddly enough.”  
“I don’t think it’s odd,” George said, suddenly growing very hot.  
Bright broke out of the spell of his memory. He smiled. “You’re a good friend, Alley,” he said.  
George looked down at his dinner. “Thanks.”  
The meal passed uneventfully. They cleaned up the dishes, and, as it was getting rather hot, set out onto the balcony. The sun was just going down, red and yellow and bright orange; the local birds were singing their evening song, romantic and sweet. Bright breathed out. He leaned back in his wicker chair, his sleeves rolled up, and put his hands behind his head. A light breeze kissed his sweaty cheeks and blew the mosquito curtains like little ghosts, dancing around behind him. George stretched out beside him on red settee, handmade by a local woman, one arm supporting his head. He yawned.  
“This is nice,” he sighed.  
“It is,” mused Bright, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.  
George looked up at Bright. He was an artful little man - tasteful freckles, olive toned skin, matching perfectly with his tousled mop of curly dark hair, not quite black; deep, kind, and clever eyes hidden under thick brows, heavy lids, and long lashes; a curved nose pointing down, under which were small lips, often pressed together, but which could part in a smile that would melt even the hardest heart. There was a sadness too, there, hidden in the back of the eyes, disguised in downward glances and hollow repetitions of “I’m doing quite well, thank you, how are you?” George had often wondered what it was that made the young soldier so sad. He wished he would open up to him. Share things with him. There was an emotional closeness that George desired that he doubted Bright could ever resiprocate.  
“Have a light?” he asked, breaking the silence as he pulled out one of his own cigarettes.  
“Of course,” Bright said, leaning forward, half over George, and holding down his hand with a lit match. George cupped his hand to keep the breeze from blowing it out. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither of them moved.  
“I should… check your burn,” George said.  
“Alright,” Bright nodded.  
George half sat up, taking Bright’s hand and removing the bandage and turning it over slightly, gently. He could feel Bright’s eyes bearing down on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up.  
“You should be fine in a day or two,” he said.  
“Thank you,” Bright responded, fairly a whisper.  
George felt his heart beating very quickly inside him. What exactly what happening? Why hadn’t Bright removed his hand. He didn’t… know, did he? Oh god please say he didn’t know.  
“I know, Alley.”  
Well shit. The words hit George like a club. That didn’t go as he’d hoped. He carefully looked up.  
“You know?” he said. “W-what about?”  
“It’s alright, really,” Bright smiled, “I saw it in the records.”  
George bolted upright. “You what?” he gasped.  
“Calm down, Alley, I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I just wanted you to know I don’t mind.”  
“I don’t… understand,” George said through gritted teeth, his stomach churning, his chest heaving, and his mind reeling.  
“You’ve covered it up very well.”  
“I have?”  
“Yes! I don’t think anyone would know.... Jörg.” The last word was said carefully, quietly, and gently.  
“What?” George thought he might vomit.  
“I know your father was german, and that you changed your name.”  
He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. “I was born in England, I’m an Englishman.”  
“And that’s how I see you,” Bright encouraged. “But with all this going on with Germany at the moment, I know some wouldn’t. And I wanted you to know I didn’t mind.”  
George’s heart rate had not yet gone back to normal. “I - well, thank you,” he said.  
Bright smiled. “There, I’d been meaning to say something about that for quite a while now, glad it’s out of the way.”  
“Yes, yes so am I,” George responded. “I was worried… it might ruin our friendship.”  
Bright sat back down, stretching out his legs. “I don’t think there’s anything I could learn about you that would ruin the friendship we have,” he yawned.  
Oh dear. George hesitated. Was this fate telling him it was time to speak? Did Puli really mean it? He thought, perhaps, that he did.  
“Well in that case,” he said slowly, “There might be something else you ought to know.”  
“Oh?” Bright looked up. “Not murdered anyone or anything have you?” he said with a grin.  
“Ah, ha, no,” George half smiled. “Nothing like that.”  
“Nothing illegal? I wouldn’t want to have to lock you up!” that twinkle in Bright’s eye didn’t make it any easier on George to say what he felt he needed to.  
“No, not exactly illegal,” George said, carefully.  
Bright stopped laughing, and looked up at George.  
“Alley?” he said with sudden seriousness. “Is everything alright?”  
George turned his back, his hands folded over the balcony railing, looking out at the skyline. Soon the soldiers would be coming home from their night out. Soon Mrs. Bright would be returning with them. Bright stood up, coming close behind his friend, putting his hand on his shoulder.  
“Come on, Alistair,” he said gently. “What’s wrong?”  
George turned and looked at Bright eye to eye. What he was about to do would risk the relationship he had developed with this man. He could hate him. Refuse to ever speak to him again. Was it worth it?  
“Whatever it is it won’t bother me, I promise,” Bright encouraged.  
George reached out slowly. First his hand rested on Bright’s shoulder, then, ever so carefully, moved up to rest on the side of his face. Bright stared at him wide eyes.  
“Alley?” he breathed, his chest pounding. “What are you doing?”  
“Puli, I-”  
But he didn’t get to finish.  
“A couple of queers, I knew it!” the voice came from somewhere on the street below. Bright pulled back instantly, a look that was a mixture of fear and disgust.  
“I told you so!” came another voice. George looked down to see a couple of drunk soldiers returning to their homes. “The old Alley Cat and his little kitten!”  
Bright’s eyes darted back at George. “George, tell them it’s not true.”  
George didn’t move. He was terrified, frozen in place.  
“George,” Bright barked.  
But George said nothing. What was he supposed to do? Explain the fact that he’d never had a sexual urge in his entire life, but the idea of spending the rest of his life in the company of a man sounded much nicer than the company of a woman? Who would believe that?  
Bright bent over the balcony. “Don’t be an idiot!” he called. “We’re nothing of the kind.”  
“Oh?” responded the drunk soldier. “If that’s so, then prove it?”  
“I would think that being married would be proof enough!” he growled.  
“Bah, a cover up, you old pansy! It’s probably why your wife comes out with us all the time. Looking for a little shag she can’t get from her nancy boy husband!”  
“Stop it!” Bright hissed, his face red with anger and fear. “Stop that right now! I am your superior officer and you will treat me with respect!”  
“Yeah? Well like I said, prove it!”  
“Dear God, what do you want me to do?” he gasped.  
The drunks considered for a moment. “Your ‘friend,’” they said. “Call him a queer.”  
Bright turned and looked at George, who was standing very still, white as a sheet. Bright was desperate. Terrified. He didn’t want to, but he was so afraid. He remembered the abuse he’d experienced from his step father. A clap on the ear. A shove in the mud. “Man up, Reggie! People will think you’re a pansy.” Somewhere along the lines, with threats from his father, and the way he’d heard others speak about homosexuals, it had become one of the things he had feared the most.  
“George…” Bright began. “You’re a…”  
George shook his head. “You don’t have to do it yourself,” George hissed. “I’ll say it for you. I am a queer, and I’m not ashamed of it.”  
He whirled around, and walked away.  
Bright did not see him again until many years later, in a dining room of a fancy hotel.


	4. 4

Bright spent most of his day outside. He’d come here “for his health,” at the recommendation, or more accurately, demand, of his doctor. Since his wife had passed, he had “let himself go,” the doctor said. He wasn’t sure what that meant. The house was clean, immaculately as a matter of fact. He bathed every other day. The cats were doing well. The garden was lovely. What about that sounded like “letting himself go?” Perhaps it was the fact that he had lost 8 pounds when he was already nearly underweight, or that he'd started smoking nearly two packs a day, or that his liquor bill had doubled and his food bill had halved. Whatever it was, the doctor didn't like it.  
He skipped lunch, but when the bar started serving alcohol at about 6 o’clock, he made his way inside to get a drink. He sat quietly at the bar, sipping a glass of brandy, watching the other guests shuffle about - getting drinks, having a laugh, dancing to the music the live band has just started playing, a few couples stealing a kiss or two in the corner of the room. downed his glass. He was tired, and he figured he would go lay down until dinner. He was just about to stand up when he heard a faint “ahem” from behind him. When he turned he saw an old man about his own height, immaculately dressed in a style that had gone out nearly ten years ago, with a set of ridiculous curled mustaches and suspiciously black hair that had receded almost entirely.  
“Yes?” He said to the man. “Did you need something?”  
“It is perhaps possible that you are Monsieur Puli?” the man asked with a thick accent.  
“I suppose I used to be, a long time ago,” Bright responded sharply. The old nickname only brought him pain now.  
“I do not mean to intrude, but mon valet, George, he was once a close friend of yours?”  
Bright hesitated. “Once, yes. As I said, a long time ago. You’re Hercule Poirot.”  
“I am he. You have heard of me?” he smiled.  
“Oh yes I’ve heard of you. They have quite a few creative names for you in the head office.”  
“Yes George mentioned that you were a policeman.”  
"Yes," responded Bright. "How did you know who I am?"  
"George told me of your exchange this morning, and…"  
Bright looked up. "Did he tell you what separated us in India?"  
Poirot nodded. "I took his description of you, and you were the only one who matched it."  
"I see. Another brandy, please, bartender," he added.  
Poirot reached out his hand and placed it atop Bright's. The little man sent a sharp glance at him. "What do you want?" he asked.  
"Please, speak to Georges. He is the broken man over what happened, and I suspect perhaps that you are too."  
Bright blinked. "How on Earth could you know that?" He asked.  
"Poirot, he notices things," he said. "I have been watching you today. Please speak to him."  
"I…" Bright looked down at the glass of brandy that the bartender had placed in front of him. "I’ll think about it," he said.  
Poirot nodded. "I suppose it is all that I can ask for. Excuse." He stood up, and walked away. Bright watched after him. What an odd little man.  
He downed his drink perhaps somewhat quicker than he should have, and stood up, feeling a bit dizzy. He didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. Could the strange little man be right? Would George, after all these years, really accept his apology? For a moment that morning, it was as if everything had gone back to the way it had been, years ago, but the moment the vent had been brought up…  
He shook his head, wandering aimlessly. He made his way upstairs and onto the balcony. It seemed to be empty. Everyone was in the lounge, or getting ready for dinner. He took a long breath of the cool evening air. A light breeze ruffled his hair. Across the lake the sun could be seen, just beginning to set, casting orangey purple light in every direction. Everything was cool and quiet. He walked to the balcony, and folded his hands over the railing. It was quite a ways down, he thought. His mind took him back 60 years, shortly after his mother had died, sitting on the balcony of his family home, his legs dangling over the edge of the railing. He’d always enjoyed sitting there because he knew he was safe. His nurse, or cook, or one of the maids, or most likely mother, was never far enough away that something might happen to him. Besides, if he did fall, he would go right into the koi pond, and that was deep enough to break his fall. He remembered how after his mother passed, his step father had fired both nurse and cook, to save money. A charwoman came instead. Mrs. Mosley. She was short, dirty, and had a long nose that hooked at the end. And she was mean, always boxing his ears if he got in her way, and somehow he was always in her way. And she would tattle on him to his step father - Reggie’s on the balcony again. Reggie took one of my cigarettes. Reggie’s skipping his exercises and reading a book instead. Reggie’s in his mother’s things. He’d always hated her. One night particularly stuck out in his memory. He’d snuck into his mother’s old room, at 7 years old, missing her terribly. The room smelled like her, felt like her, made it seem like she wasn’t really gone. He’d climbed into her wardrobe, rubbing his face against her soft clothes, remembering times she had worn every item. One particular dress, a creamy yellow and lacy one with a brown stain and white ribbons, he remembered especially. He’d been out getting ice cream with her when he was five, and dropped his chocolate cone all over her dress. He’d been devastated, but all she did was laugh, and get him another cone. He pulled the dress off it’s hanger and slipped it on, holding it up to his face and breathing deeply the memories of his dearest friend. He wondered why he had not been able to save her. He’d prayed, oh how hard he’d prayed. And when that hadn’t worked he’d even gone as far as visiting the local witch and asking for a spell to make her well. In his childlike innocence, he wondered if God was angry at him for consorting with a witch, and took his mother as punishment. He had pulled out a pair of high-heeled white shoes, and his mother's pearls, and slipped them on. Looking at himself in his mother’s mirror, it was almost like she’d never gone. Everyone always said he took after her much more than after his father.  
With a bang, the bedroom door swung open.  
“Reggie!” came the husky voice of the charwoman. “You know you ain’t supposed to be in here. And what the hell’s that you’ve got on?”  
The charwoman had rushed to him, grabbing him by the ear and pulling him off his precarious position on the high-heeled shoes. He’d not been able to catch himself, and fell face first onto the carpet, hitting his nose. Blood splattered all over his mother’s yellow dress.  
“Now you’ve done it,” hissed the old woman, “You’ve gone and ruined your mother’s things! What a disobedient little boy. And dressed up as a girl! Do you what your father to think you’re a queer?”  
He remembered the fear that had rushed through him. “No!” he’d gasped, cupping his hand under his nose to try to stop the bleeding. “Please don’t tell him! I’ll tell Papa you’re stealing things! And I know you are! Some of the dishes are missing!”  
She’d pulled him up from the ground by his ear, so hard he thought she might rip it right off, holding him close to her face - so close he had to stand on his toes to keep upright. She’d made him swear he wouldn’t tell his father about her stealing in exchange for her silence. He muttered a word of agreement, and she dropped him onto the floor, leaving him alone. He was not sure how long he had laid there, all he remembered was that he cried himself to sleep on his mothers dress, half in a puddle of his own blood, and when he’d woken, it was morning.  
Bright’s knuckles turned white white with his grip on the railing. He wondered if it would support him. He pushed on it. It didn’t give. He glanced around to make sure no one would see. With one foot still on the solid surface of the balcony, he swung his other over the railing. He took in a breath. He wasn’t quite as good at this has he used to be. Very carefully, he got his other leg over the edge. He gripped the balcony with his hands, steadying himself, and leaned forward slightly, looking down. What on earth was he doing? If he fell he could die. He was no little boy anymore. He was an old man. He was hurting, and he was alone. He blinked down at the cobble road beneath him. Something about it looked inviting. A voice in the back of his head began to whisper something - something he had not heard since he was a child, bruised and crying from an encounter with his step-father, and something that scared him very much.   
He felt a sudden grip of someone’s hand on his shoulder. “Puli, dear God what are you doing?”  
He turned sharply, and came face to face with George. “Alley,” he gasped. “I thought I was alone.”  
“Please,” George said, now more gently, “Come off of there.”  
The whisper had now fled from the light that George had brought, like a cockroach scurrying from the morning sun when a curtain’s opened. It was almost like it had never been.  
“I just… I used to do this as a child,” Bright protested, “I suppose I wanted to feel like a boy again.”  
George looked at him carefully. “Please come off of there,” he repeated.  
With a frown, Bright did as requested. George grabbed him by both shoulders. “Are you alright?” he asked.  
Bright looked at him, confused. “You- you thought I was going to jump.”  
George flushed. “I didn’t know, I... I couldn’t risk it,” he admitted, breathless.  
Bright felt his stomach churn. He didn’t know what to say. After the moment of silence passed, George removed his hands, stepping back.  
“I’m sorry, you probably didn’t want-” he turned to walk away. Bright reached out a hand and grabbed his arm, turning him towards him.  
“Wait.”


	5. Chapter 5

1905, Brighton 

13-year-old Alistair George sprinted down the steps, his bare feet slapping on the concrete. He loved the beach, and he was as eager as ever to get there. It wasn’t long that he felt the sand under his feet and he could see the coastline. He stopped, gasping, the salty hair filling his lungs.   
“Slow down, Alistair!” called his mother disapprovingly from several yards back. It took her a moment to catch up with him. “Good lord, boy,” she panted. “You’d think you’d never seen a beach before.”  
“I love it,” he mused, the wind tossing his curly dark hair.  
His mother laughed. “Oh alright,” she said. “Go have your fun. But be careful.”  
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and ran off. “Thank mum!” he called.  
She shook her head, chuckling slightly. She could never quite understand how her boy ended up as he did. He was nothing like his father, and in truth not much like her either. Perhaps he took a bit after his Uncle Charlie, but outside of that, you would never have known he was a George. Even his curly dark hair caused him to stand out from a family of straight-haired blondes. But she loved him, and she was proud of him, even if his father did not quite approve of the way he acted. He was sweet, gentle, and kind. He was good with children, and often seemed to make better friends with the girls than the boys, and he always acted like a gentleman. Never rude, never garish, never playing cruel tricks on his sisters. He was a soft, sensitive child. She feared his transition out of childhood and into the real world might be a rude awakening for him, but she hoped he might be able to keep some of his true nature, even in a world that demanded a very different kind of man than he was.  
Alistair George ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, the sand slipping underneath his feet. His favorite part of this beach was near the rocks, where a particularly flat one sat with just enough space for one or maybe two people to sit comfortably. He loved to sit there and watch the older boys, who would jump from high on the rocks into the ocean, and play water sports, or dare each other to see how long they could hold their breath. He’d never got on well with boys, especially boys older than himself, even if he wanted to join their games, so he lived vicariously through them by watching them. He finally found his spot, and made himself comfortable. He hung his legs over the edge, just dipping his toes into the water.  
“Hullo,” came a voice from the water below.  
Alistair jumped, turning to the direction the voice had come from. Treading water alongside his rock, was a boy of about two or three years older than him, blond, blue eyed, strapping, and Alistair couldn’t help but think remarkably handsome.  
“H-hello,” responded the younger boy, unused to having an older boy speak to him first.  
“Watcha doing?” asked the blonde.  
“Just sitting,” Alistair responded.  
“Can I come up?”  
Alistair froze. Why on earth would this boy want to sit with him? “Sure…” he said hesitantly.  
The boy hoisted himself up on the rock, and Alistair scooted over, making room for him to sit.  
“Nice view,” the boy smiled. “I’m Robbie Brown.” He held out his hand.  
Alistair took it, nodding. “I’m Alistair George.”  
“So, George,” Robbie sighed. “You come here often?”  
Alistair couldn’t quite understand what exactly was going on. He thought a moment. “Every summer,” he said eventually.  
“Me too,” Robbie said, not looking at Alistair. “Never seen you here before, but I’ve seen you around a few times this week.”  
Alistair looked at him, wide-eyed. “Oh?”  
“Yeah. You always sit here. Why?” Robbie asked.  
Alistair flushed. He couldn’t exactly say that he liked watching the older boys out in the water. That, he didn’t think, would go over particularly well.  
“I like it,” he said instead.  
“You should come out and play with us sometime,” Robbie encouraged.  
“I’m not very good at water sports,” he said. “I can’t keep myself afloat good enough.”  
“Oh, well I could help with that. I’m a great swimmer.”  
“I’m a good swimmer too,” George faintly huffed. “I’m just not very good at treading water when there’s waved.”  
“It’s cause you’re so skinny,” said Robbie authoritatively. “I could show you some exercises to build your muscle. “My uncle taught them to me. He boxes.”  
Alistair thought of his own uncle, Uncle Charlie. The only things Uncle Charlie had ever taught him was ballroom dancing and how to play the piano.  
“I’d like that,” he said.  
Robbie shifted to the edge of the rock. “Follow me then! We can go to the hotel gymnasium.”  
“That’s for grown ups,” Alistair said disapprovingly.  
Robbie got a sly expression on his face. “They’ll never know we’re in there!” he said. “I’ve checked. No one goes in in the middle of the day, they’re all at the beach!”  
Alistair hesitated. “Well, ok,” he said at last. “You lead the way.”  
And Robbie did. He slipped into the water, and together they carefully avoided their parents, slinking along the very outskirts of the beach, and running back to the hotel.  
Once they reached the gymnasium, Alistair realized it was true. It was completely empty. Robbie took him over to one of the machines.  
“I think I might be too small for this,” Alistair admitted.  
“Ah don’t worry!” Robbie encouraged. “I’ll show you how to use it!”   
And he did. Carefully, little by little, Robbie taught the younger boy how to use the different equipment. Alistair was unsteady, but Robbie’s strong hands steadied him, and ever so gently guided him. Still wearing nothing but his swimsuit, Alistair found it very strange to have someone else touch his bare shoulders and waist, but Robbie didn’t seem to mind, so he figured he shouldn’t either. Once or twice Alistair slipped and fell, but Robbie was always there to catch him. He’d look up at the older boy, who was smiling amiably down at him, and wonder why he was being so kind. His chest felt tight, and he had butterflies in his stomach. This was very strange, he thought. He’d never felt quite like it before. Perhaps it was the exercise.  
After an hour, Alistair was nearly spent.  
“I don’t think I did very well,” he said, rubbing his sore arms.  
“Don’t be silly!” Robbie smiled, wiping his own sweaty brow. “You did great! And we’ll keep working at it over the next few days, before we leave.”  
Alistair smiled. “Thanks,” he said.  
Robbie smiled too. “Don’t mention it. Now we better get back though, before our parents notice we’re missing.”  
When they reached the beach again, god did the water feel good. Alistair dunked himself under, feeling the salty cold water wash over his sweaty, somewhat matted hair. He came back up, his bangs hanging over his eyes. Robbie laughed, but somehow the laugh that normally would have made Alistair shrink away, worried of what other boys thought, this time made him laugh too. He brushed his hair back.  
“I think I need to get it cut,” he said.  
“No don’t” Robbie replied, just loud enough for his voice to be heard over the waves. “I like it as it is.”  
Alistair blinked. He was going to open his mouth to say something, when he heard his mother calling.  
“I - I’ve got to go,” he said, swimming to the shore.  
“We’ll meet again though?” Robbie called after him.  
Alistair turned. “Same time, same place tomorrow?”  
Robbie assented, and Alistair ran to his mother on the beach.  
They did as they had planned. The next day, they met on the rock. They talked for a while, and eventually made their way up to the gymnasium again. Alistair was sore, but Robbie helped him make sure he did different exercises this time, so he didn’t hurt himself. After an hour, they returned again to the beach. They repeated this for the next two days.  
It was Friday morning, and Alistair realized he only had one more full day with Robbie. It made him remarkably sad, but he did not quite understand why.  
They met again at the same time on what they had begun to call “their rock.” But instead of the gymnasium, this time Robbie suggested a walk. They both wanted it to last longer than the gymnasium hour they had had before, so Alistair suggested telling his mother he’d be going on a walk that day instead of the beach. She was surprised, given how much he loved the water, but allowed him to go.  
He met Robbie again by the road, and they headed off together. Their walk soon took them off road, climbing around the rocks. They talked and laughed and play fought with remarkably sword-like sticks they found under a tree. Alistair even taught Robbie how to waltz, though Robbie did not turn out to be very good at it. Eventually they got tired, and found a comfortable place under a tree, well away from where anyone could see them. Alistair dropped his bag on the ground, spilling out a few snacks he’d back for the beach day. He handed half to Robbie.  
“Thanks mate,” Robbie smiled. Alistair couldn’t help but notice that when Robbie took the apple Alistair had pinched from the hotel kitchen, that his thumb seemed to graze Alistair's hand far longer than was strictly necessary. They sat quietly and munched their snacks. After a while, Alistair spoke.  
“I don’t really want to go home,” he said, looking down at his shoes.  
“Neither do I, now you mention it,” Robbie responded. “There’s fireworks tonight, isn’t there?”  
Alistair nodded. “Over the water they said. I love fireworks.”  
“Me too. What do you say we sneak off together during them, and find a good place, like up here maybe, to watch them? Maybe you could pinch something a little more exciting than an apple from the kitchen, since you seem to be so good at it.”  
Alistair flushed. He was quite good at not being noticed, always had been, and he supposed he might as well put it to good use.  
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll do it.”  
Robbie reached over and tousled Alistair’s hair. “That’s my lad!” he smiled.  
Alistair swallowed, and turned back to his half a salmon paste sandwich, which had now lost almost all of its interests. His mouth was far too dry to eat anything now.  
When it got dark, most of the residents of the hotel filed out to the balcony and the lawn, readying themselves for the fireworks. Alistair told his parents that he did not feel well, and wanted to stay in his room. They were surprised, but allowed him.  
He went straight from the lawn into the hotel, down a flight of stairs, and to the kitchen. By now all the staff was gone, as they too wanted to see the display. He checked a few cupboards, and found something green that he was almost positive was some variety of alcohol. Being that his parents were tea-totalers, he did not have much experience with the stuff, but he figured this must do. He was just going to leave, when he saw that one of the cooks left a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches sitting out. He thought a moment, then slipped them into his pocket. Before he left, he grabbed to little glass goblets, a hunk of cheese, and a bunch of grapes, wrapped them all in a cheese cloth, and headed out.  
When he reached the tree, Robbie was already there. It worked out well that he’d forgotten to bring candles, as the full moon easily lit up their space under the tree.  
“God, George,” he sighed. “I thought you might not make it.”  
“I took a bit longer in the kitchen than I thought,” he said. He opened up the cheesecloth to show Robbie his spoils, and pulled the bottle out from under his jacket.  
Robbie pulled off the lid and poured them each a half a glass. Alistair grimaced slightly. It was surprisingly minty, and burned going down. He turned instead to the grapes and cheese. Robbie sipped his drink. Clearly this was not his first experience with alcohol. After a moment, Alistair remembered what else he had slipped into his pocket.  
“Oh, and I forgot about this,” he said with a mouthful of cheese, holding out the cigarettes and matches.  
“Ah! What a great little thief you are!” Robbie grinned, grabbing one and slipping it between his lips. He lit it and drew deeply. Alistair was impressed. He’d been snatching cigarettes from his father since he was nine, and it appeared Robbie had been doing something similar. He took a cigarette himself, and Robbie leaned forward to light it for him. For a moment, their faces were only an inch or two apart. Robbie’s bright blue eyes hidden under long lashes sparkled in the moonlight. His roman nose and curved jawline, his lips just barely parted to hold his glowing cigarette. Alistair suddenly thought he might throw up. He pulled back, taking his cigarette with shaking hands. In the silence, he leaned back against the tree, Robbie beside him. He felt… very happy. Despite the nerves and churning stomach, something about this felt incredibly right. He didn’t know what it was, but he liked it.   
His left hand rested in the grass, fiddling with a twig that had fallen from the tree. The fireworks had just started, and his attention was taken by them. He had no idea that Robbie was watching him, studying ever feature, thinking over every event that had happened in the last few days, every word, every glance, every hesitant touch that had passed between them. Alistair suddenly felt a hand on his. He turned, and in an instant it was like the fireworks had disappeared. All he saw was Robbie, his hand on his, fingers intertwining, and his face remarkably close to his.  
“This… this is romantic, isn’t it?” he asked.  
Alistair blinked. He couldn’t believe his ears. It was, wasn't it? He thought. Yes, it was. And it was very, very nice.  
“Yeah,” he said.   
“Do you like it?” Robbie asked.  
Alistair nodded. Robbie leaned forward. Alistair blinked. The next thing he knew, for a split second, Robbie’s lips had touched his. He’d turned away almost instantly afterwards, looking back at the fireworks. It took several minutes for Alistair to be aware of anything but what had just passed between him and Robbie. Was this all really real? Even when they went back to the hotel, and Robbie hugged him goodbye, it still doesn't seem real. He climbed the stairs to his room, and laid down in bed, staring at the ceiling. A few minutes later his parents and sisters came into their room. He quickly closed his eyes, pretending he was asleep. His heart was beating so fast, so wildly and excited, and he swore they must have been able to hear it. But no one said anything, and before long everyone was asleep in their beds. Everyone besides him.   
When the morning came, Alistair caught his mother’s eye, nodding towards the balcony. He was so excited, he wanted to share what had happened with his mother, so she could be excited too. He thought if she knew, maybe she’d let he and Robbie exchange letters over the school year, until they could meet here again next summer.  
He never forgot the fear in his mother’s eyes when he shared his news. He knew she was not angry with ihm him. She grabbed him in her arms and held him tighter than she had ever held him before. Yet she was crying. He didn’t understand. She begged him never to speak of this to anyone ever again. To keep it a secret, hidden away, to never act on it in public. She kept him by her side that entire morning as they packed up to leave. He did not see Robbie again.  
He left the hotel confused and hurting. He never forgot his first love. But he also never forgot the fear and shame he felt after he told his mother. He had some something wrong, clearly, but he did not understand. It didn’t become fully clear to him until a few months later, when Uncle Charlie suddenly stopped coming to visit, and the friend he lived with, Mr. Barrow, who’d always been rather like an uncle to Alistair too, stopped by to give Alistair a letter before moving to France. It was from Uncle Charlie. He asked Alistair to burn the letter once he’d finished reading it. Uncle Charlie told him that he had been put in jail because he and Mr. Barrow were in love, and people had found out. He told him that he knew how he felt things, and asked him to be more careful than he had been. “Never be ashamed of who you are, my boy,” he’d said, “But keep it secret. It’s not safe for people like us in this world. I know you don’t understand now, but someday you will. All my love, brave boy, Uncle Charlie.”


	6. Chapter 6

All the color drained from George’s face. He stared at Bright, who’s hand still held him tightly by the arm. Bright hadn’t prepared what he was going to say. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. All he knew was that he did not want George to leave.  
“Don’t go,” he said.  
George blinked. “You were going to jump, weren’t you?” he said, breathlessly.  
Bright looked at the floor. “For a moment,” he said, “The thought had occurred to me. Some dark demon from my childhood, which I thought I had killed years ago.”   
George wanted to reach out, take Bright in his arms, envelope him with care and affection, but he stood very still instead. “Your childhood?” he asked.  
“Yes,” the little man nodded. “It was not a happy one after my mother passed.”  
“Did you ever… try to…”  
“Twice.” These words that he was speaking, he could hardly understand. Never in his life had he thought he would tell someone. No one knew. Not his step-father. Nor any member of the house staff. Not his first girlfriend, who he’d thought he might marry. Not even his wife. “I didn’t understand how things worked at the time,” he added. “I didn’t really understand what I was doing, thank God.”  
George could no longer restrain himself fully. He reached out and touched Bright’s shoulder.  
“Puli, I… I never had any idea. You always seemed so well.”  
“Things got better after I left home,” he said. “I decided to, how do they say it, stick it to the man? I was going to live whether life was trying to kill me or not.”  
A smile found its way to George’s lips. “Dear Puli, you brave boy.”   
Both were somewhat startled by his words. Bright swallowed. He stepped closer to Geroge. What on earth was he doing? He’d never… never felt anything like this before, towards a man at the very least. All those years of fear, of desperate avoidance of anything that might make people question his sexuality - sexuality. He wasn’t even sure if he had sexuality. He’d been with his wife, yes, and of course he’d loved her, desperately, and yet… He felt his hand grasp tighter onto George’s arm. His breath came in quicker, uneven gasps. What was he doing? He looked up into George’s wide eyes. Was George as scared as he was, he wondered? He pulled George closer, then let go of his arm. He looked up at him, their eyes locked and breaths in sync, and all of a sudden he felt brave - all his 67 years of fear seemed to melt away. He no longer cared if people saw him, or what they would think if they did. It was the 60’s, after all. Things were different.  
He swallowed, suddenly realizing he was not quite sure how to do this. He raised his hands, and cupped George’s face. George blinked, stunned.  
“Puli,” he breathed. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”  
Bright did not answer, but instead pulled George down to reach his lips. He supposed that was answer enough. For a moment their lips touched. Bright was aware of the faint scratch of George’s five oclock shadow, Geroge’s hand in the small of his back, the other cupping his neck. It all felt remarkably natural, like something he’d never known he wanted, but now that it was here, he never wanted it to leave. At last they pulled back, red raced and flustered like two schoolgirls experimenting for the first time.  
Bright stepped back. “I’m sorry, I - I don’t know what came over me, I-”   
But George did not let him finish. He grabbed Bright, pulling him close to him, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Neither of them had quite realized how much their sizes differed, but Bright, for one, did not mind. He rested his head against the chest of his friend - friend, he thought. Was he quite able to refer to him as only that now? He didn’t think so. George let his lips touch the top of Bright’s head. His hair was remarkably soft, and smelled good. Like - what was that? Lavender. Yes. His heart was so full, he thought it might burst. Years, oh so many years, of dreaming, wanting, loving, hurting, and all at once it no longer mattered. He wanted nothing more than to stay here, with Bright in his arms, for the rest of his life.  
Neither one of them wanted to separate, but at the sound of footsteps on the balcony, it became suddenly necessary. Thoughts of no more fear were well and good, but things were a bit different in real life. Neither of them quite realized that their hands were still clasped as they separated.  
“Mr. Poirot!” George gasped, red faced and breathing heavily.  
The old man’s eyes wrinkled into a smile.  
“I think it is time,” he said, “For Poirot to release you from your employment, George.”  
George’s eyes widened. “But Sir -”  
“It is no fault of your own, ma cher George,” Poirot assured. “But I think that you need the time. You deserve it.”  
Bright looked up at George. “You could… come with me. To Oxford.”  
George looked down. “Come - with you?”  
“Yes. I’ve plenty of money now its, well, just me and the cats.”   
“He is the very good cook, Monsieur Puli,” Poirot smiled.  
“Yes,” Bright said, “I remember. He taught me everything I know about it.”  
“You really mean...” George said, still not having moved on from Bright’s proposition. “After all these years, we hardly know each other anymore.”  
Bright turned towards George, taking both his hands in his. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for that,” he said. “Please come.”   
“I -” George’s stomach was churning. Could he really leave everything his life had been for decades, to be with another man? It was all he had ever wanted. The companionship, the quiet, laid back sort of love that usually only comes between the elderly. He supposed he was elderly now, wasn’t he? “But Mr. Poriot, what will you do?” he asked.  
“Poirot, he has been thinking for some time, that he would move to the country. But he did not want to leave you alone. Now I do not have to. You need not worry about me.”  
George turned back to Bright. He could barely believe what he was about to say.  
“Yes,” the word felt somehow foreign on his lips. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”   
Bright’s heart filled fuller than it had already been, which he did not think was possible.  
“I’m so glad,” Bright smiled, tears rising in his eyes.  
“Ah, mes chers,” Poirot smiled, coming up to them and putting a hand on each of their arms.  
“Sir,” George said, “Could we… have your blessing?”  
Poirot smiled. “You already have it.”


	7. Chapter 7

The cab pulled up in front of the inconspicuous little house. George looked out the window. So this was going to be his home. Home… how sweet that word tasted on his lips. Bright was climbing out of the car and paying the driver before George snapped out of his musing.  
“Come on, then,” Bright smiled. He turned to the trunk to retrieve their suitcases. George emerged quickly to help with the baggage. With a suitcase under each arm, he followed Bright down the little cobble path and to the front door. Bright pulled out a key from his trouser pocket, and opened the door.  
“We can put your things upstairs,” Bright said. George followed without speaking, his eyes darting around what he could see of the house with curiosity. They reached the second floor in a moment. Bright suddenly stopped, looking back and forth between the two bedroom doors. Dear lord, he’d not thought of this. Most couples shared a room, though he and his wife had given up that after they had lost their daughter. He wondered… what would George want? He didn’t want to take him to his room and then George think he was being too forward. But he didn’t want George to be upset if he set him up in the other room. He didn’t know quite how these things worked, with two men. George laid a hand on Bright’s shoulder.  
“I was thinking,” he said, “That for now at least, we should have seperate rooms. We don’t want to move things too quickly, you know?”  
Bright sighed in relief. “Yes,” he said, “I was thinking the same.”  
George smiled as Bright showed him the other room. It was remarkably difficult, Bright suddenly realized, to imagine someone else sleeping in his wife’s old bed. George noticed Bright’s discomfort.  
“This was… your wife’s room, wasn’t it?” he said gently.  
Bright nodded.  
“If you’d rather,” George continued, “I could sleep on the sofa.”  
“Good god no,” Bright insisted. “You’ll sleep here. After all,” he added quietly, “You’re my… well, I don’t know quite what to call you.”  
“I don’t think we need to know,” Geroge smiled.  
“You understand,” Bright said, thinking now might be as good a time as any to bring up something he’d been thinking about for a while, “I can’t… I don’t think that it would be a good idea for me to tell people what we are to each other.”  
“Oh of course,” George nodded. “I understand perfectly. Things have changed over the years but even so, you have a position to maintain as a policeman.”  
Bright stepped forward, taking George’s hand. “I am not ashamed of you,” he said.  
“Nor I you,” George smiled. “But we have to be careful.”  
“All the same,” Bright said after a moment. “There is one particular person I think… I think I might like you to meet.”  
George raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”  
“Yes, a coworker of mine. Fred Thursday. He’s a very good man. He’s helped me a great deal over the years, and stood by me when most wouldn’t, especially when…”  
“When you lost your wife.”  
“Yes,” he said quietly.It was remarkable to him how despite how separately he and his wife had lived for so many years, he still missed her in every part of the house. “Well,” he added, “I’ll let you unpack. Should I make dinner or would you like to go out tonight?”  
“I’d prefer to stay in, if you don’t mind,” George said. “I rather like being… home.”  
George thought he caught a tear rising in Bright’s eye. “Curried chicken with rice?”  
“Sounds wonderful,” George smiled.  
Bright turned to walk out, but George reached out his hand, catching Bright’s and pulling him quickly back into an embrace. Despite the fact that they had been stealing kisses from one another when no one was looking for nearly a month now, Bright still flushed at every one. George couldn’t help but think that it was adorable.  
“What was that for?” Bright asked.  
George grinned and shrugged. “You know the old adage, kiss the cook?”  
Bright shook his head. “You old idiot,” he laughed.  
“Yes but I’m your old idiot.”  
Bright caught the twinkle in George’s eye. The twinkle that always made his heart skip a beat. “And I’m very glad of it too,” he said a bit breathlessly.  
For a moment they just smiled at each other, thinking how lovely this moment was.  
When Bright finally made his way to the kitchen, he could barely remember the last time he had felt as happy as he did now.  
Over the following weeks and months, things went very well. Bright would go to work during the day while George stayed home and did bits of housework that needed to be done. In the evenings they would usually make their meal together, which would often get interrupted by a few hugs and kisses. They would talk, read, or listen to music, late into the night most often, while sitting together on the sofa, hand in hand, and in each other’s arms. His head leaning on George’s chest became one of Bright’s favorite spots. George even convinced Bright to get a television, so that they could watch sports, which was George’s favorite, and the occasional Royal Shakespeare Company play, which Bright prefered. When they went out, which they usually did once or twice a week, they would keep a respectful distance from one other, but had anyone really been paying attention to the two amiable old men having their candle-lit dinner in the farthest corner of the restaurant, they would have noticed the subtle glances and occasional brushes of fingertips, which told a very different story from what they said aloud. Films were also a favorite, as it was dark enough that a hand could be held without anyone really noticing. They were learning so much about each other, and in turn so much about themselves as well. Their love only grew deeper. It had changed from that first giddy rush, heart’s pounding, flushed faces and hands shaking with anticipation, and had become something softer, more gentle, and comfortable. The change in their feelings did not stop Bright from being the first thing on George’s mind when he fell asleep and when he awoke, nor did it change Bright finding himself daydreaming at his desk, when there was work to be done. But it made them feel safe, which neither had felt for a very long time.


	8. Chapter 8

Bright found himself, at roughly 4 p.m., gazing absently at the little silver band in the maroon velvet box that he had bought during his lunch hour. His stomach was churning. It was something he’d been thinking about for a few months now. After all, they were living together, which was something he and his wife had not even done before they were married. He thought about when he had proposed to her. God he’d been terrified. They were both so young. It was such a different time. He had loved her, so dearly, but never the way she wanted. He was not capable of that. In time she had learned to appreciate the type of love that he could give, but their relationship had certainly had their rough spots. He sighed, rubbing his temples.  
“Alright, Mr. Bright?” came a voice from his open door.  
He snapped the ring box shut.  
“Thursday!” he said with surprise. “Is something wrong?”  
“No nothing,” Thursday replied. “It’s just that it’s such a slow day, a few of us were going to tap out a bit early and get a pint or two before heading home. I thought I would let you know.”  
“Oh,” Bright mused. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He stood up and slipped the ring box into his pocket as inconspicuously as he could. He took his jacket and hat from their spots on the coat rack and followed after Thursday.  
“Anything new, Sir?” Thursday asked.  
Bright felt fear shoot through his chest. “Oh, nothing really,” he lied as he followed Thursday down the hall.  
Thursday shrugged. ‘It’s just you’ve not been at any of the station functions over the past few months. I just,” he hesitated. “I wanted to check in.”  
Bright smiled. “I’m doing quite well, thank you,” he said.  
“Glad to hear it,” Thursday nodded genuinely.  
Neither said much until they reached the pub. Bright ordered a gin and lime, and found a seat in the corner, as he often did. Dr. Debryn caught his eye from across the room, and came over to say hello.  
“Good evening, Doctor,” he said with a smile.  
“Good evening, Chief Superintendent,” replied the doctor. “Care if I sit?”  
“Feel free,” Bright replied.  
Debryn made himself comfortable, carefully adjusting his tie. “I’ve been meaning to ask-”  
“I’m well,” Bright interrupted.  
Debryn flushed slightly. “You know if you ever need anything…”  
“I appreciate it Doctor, but I really am doing well.”  
“I just haven’t seen much of you lately, we were, well, worried.”  
Bright felt somehow surprised and comforted by the thought that he was missed, but he also worried that people might begin to ask slightly more invasive questions.  
“Hello there Debryn,” Thursday said with a smile, plopping down his beer and pulling up a chair. “Finally found the missing man, eh?”  
Bright flushed. “I’ve just had a few things going on recently,” he said.  
Thursday drank a bit of his beer. “So,” he said, eyeing Bright. “When are you going to tell us who she is?”  
Bright looked back and forth between the two of them, completely at a loss. “I beg your pardon?” he said.  
“Oh come on,” Thursday teased. “Suddenly dropped off the face of the earth most evenings, coming in late some mornings, and now I see you at your desk with a ring box? What else could it be?”  
Bright went very white. He was in a sudden panic. What on earth was he going to do? How else could he explain it? “I - well, yes there is someone,” he said hesitantly.  
“Come on then,” Thursday grinned. “Tell us all about her! Where’d you meet her?”  
“I met them on vacation,” he said, suddenly more aware of pronouns than he ever had been in his life. “I knew them, years ago, in India. We rekindle our friendship and…”  
“What’s she like?” Thursday asked.  
“Very kind, clever too,” he could feel himself getting lost in visions of his love. “A hard worker, selfless… and remarkably beautiful.”  
Debryn couldn’t help but thinking of the phrase “he’s got it bad.”  
“You’re planning on proposing?” he asked instead.  
Bright nodded. “I’m not sure quite when yet,” he said. “I don’t think it’s the right time.”  
“You’ll have to bring her along some night,” Thursday suggested. “I’m sure we’d all like to meet her.”  
“I’m not sure that would be possible,” Bright said.  
Debryn noticed the change in Bright’s tone. He wanted to keep Thursday from saying the obvious “why not?” So he interjected, “What’s her name?”  
He glanced back and forth between them, his chest full of what felt like writhing insects, hot and heavy. This was it, the moment he’d been dreading. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Should he lie? But how long would he be able to keep that up? But if he said the truth, would he be betraying George’s confidence? He remembered the twinkle in the old Belgian’s eyes as he’d taken their hands, speaking a little blessing over them before they left the hotel. The acceptance, the love that had been shown, he’d never thought it was possible. If one man could break all societal and religious norms, perhaps two more could too.  
“Alistair,” he said at last. The silence that came afterwards nearly killed him. He thought he might throw up.  
“A man?” came Debryn’s voice, calmly, and without accusation.  
“Yes,” Bright replied.  
“Oh,” Thursday said awkwardly.  
Bright looked between them, desperate for some sort of affirmation.  
“Well I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy,” Debryn smiled. He held up his glass. “Congratulations, and I wish you both all the best!”  
Bright could barely believe his ears.  
Thursday hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I like to think I’m not a bigited man. I’ve done enough people wouldn’t like, I can’t see why judging someone else for their decisions would make anything better. Congratulations, Sir.”  
“You don’t - hate me?” he asked almost desperately. “You don’t think I’m a queer?”  
Thursday looked vaguely insulted, but Debryn smiled gently.  
“Well I’m not sure you can escape that last label,” he said. “But I believe the prefered term, in your case, would be bisexual, meaning someone who is attracted to both men and women sexually.”   
Bright again heard the word sexual. Amid the joy that he felt in finding his friends so accepting, he could still tell that they did not quite understand how he felt. He suddenly realized he had not even told George how he felt. Sweat sprung up on his palms. That was something, he thought, that was going to have to be addressed.


	9. Chapter 9

It was finally cool enough to sit outside. Bright had the luxury of a private back garden, with walls that covered and hit just about anything that might go on back there. George and Bright took full advantage of this, and once the cool autumn months began, would, almost every evening, be found sitting together outside, with warm mugs of tea and occasionally cocoa. Bright had come to realize that he very much liked casual intimacy, whether that be a hand on his thigh when they sat and watched the television, legs intertwined under a table at a restaurant, or, his personal favorite, when they sat outside he would rest his legs across George’s lap, the bigger man’s arm around his shoulder, and his head resting on his lover’s chest. They would often share an old aphgan there, when it started getting just a bit too chilly to sit out without one.  
One evening, in early November, they were sitting thus. George’s head was leaning back against the wall, and he was dozing. Bright was wearing one of George’s sweaters, which was remarkably too big for him, but also happened to make him look utterly adorable. Or at least George thought so. As they sat, Bright was fumbling with the velvet ring box he had been carrying in his pocket for nearly a month. No moment seemed quite perfect enough. He thought, though, as he listened to George start snoring, the smell of freshly made cocoa filling his nose, and he looked out above the stone wall that surrounded his yard to see the full moon shining brightly down upon him, he couldn’t think of anything more perfect. He looked up at George.  
“My dear,” he said gently.  
George blinked awake. “Hm?” he said sleepily.  
“There was something I was wondering if we could talk about.”  
George sat up. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Yes, what is it?” he asked.  
“I need you to let me sit up,” Bright insisted.  
George moved his arms, which had been resting over Bright’s legs. Bright sat up.  
“Nothing’s… wrong?” George asked, his stomach churning.  
“Oh god no,” Bright said quickly. “It’s just that - give me a moment.”  
He had not realized quite how stiff he had become. He straightened his back, put his hand on the wicker bench, and slid off, onto his knees. George nearly stood up.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Perfectly,” Bright replied. He hesitated. Suddenly he thought he may have lost his nerve. But he couldn’t. Now was the time, he felt it. “Alistair,” he said. George reacted. It was very rare that Bright used his Christian name. “Alistair, my love. I’ve been meaning to say this for some time.” He paused. He would have thought after all the rehearsing he had done, he would know what on earth he was going to say, and yet here he was, at a loss for words. “You know that I love you.”  
“Of course I do, Puli, what on earth -”  
“Please, let me finish. We’ve been together for several months now, and I think that it’s time for us to move forward from, well, being what we are now. And I would like to ask you-” he paused and dug in his pocket, pulling out the little maroon velvet ring box. He opened it slowly, revealing the small silver ring. “I would like to ask you if you would be my - my husband.”  
George felt his heart skip a beat. “Your - your husband.”  
“Yes. I know that we won’t even be able to be quite public with things, but I would like to live with you and I knowing the truth. If we knew, then no one else would matter.”  
“Well,” George hesitated. In that very moment Bright suddenly realized how lost he would be without the man he loved. If George said no - he couldn’t even dare to think. George opened his mouth again to speak. “Well, I’ll have to ask my parents.”  
Bright felt suddenly very confused. “I - you… what?”  
“Oh you beautiful idiot,” George said, beaming. “It’s a joke. Of course I’ll marry you!”  
Bright felt light headed. “You mean it?”  
“Let me show you how much I mean it.”  
George’s big hands moved forwards, finding their place on either side of Bright’s face. He pulled him forward for their lips to meet. The kiss was deep and long. George’s hands found their way down Bright’s narrow shoulders and to his back, pulling him forward to find a place on his lap. Bright’s arms were around Geroge’s neck. After a moment they pulled apart, and Bright buried his face into George’s shoulders.  
“I’m so happy,” he hummed.  
“What do you say I actually get my ring now?” George smiled. Bright suddenly remembered the ring box in his hand, which had, for a moment, disappeared from his mind. He sat back.  
“Give me your hand,” he said. George did as instructed. Bright gently stroked the hand for a moment, then slipped the silver band on his left ring finger. “It looks better than I could have ever imagined,” he smiled.  
George held out his hand, admiring it. “Who would have ever thought,” he mused.  
“Certainly not me,” Bright laughed. “After all, I was married when we first met.”  
“Oh how I followed you around like a lost little puppy,” George followed suit in the laughter.  
“You did, didn’t you? I believe you would have moved in if I had asked you.”  
“Of course I would have, I was in love with you then too.”  
Bright hesitated. “You were in love with me then?”  
George nodded. “Why else do you think I reacted as I did that night? The love of my life finding out who I truly was, and I was too scared to find out what you were going to say.”  
Bright was silent for a moment. He didn’t even know what he had intended to say. Fear had almost made him do something terrible. He was never going to let that happen again. He thought how, for most of his life, fear had been his constant companion. He could hear it whispering even now.  
When George finds out you don’t want to have sex, he’ll leave you. That’s what your wife did.  
But she came back, Bright protested. She only left briefly. It was a mistake. She really did love me.  
You think, hissed his Fear, that she was really satisfied with you? Don’t be ridiculous. She was out more days than not. You have no idea what she was doing most times. Getting her needs met, that’s what. The needs that you couldn’t fulfill.  
But I gave her all that I could give, Bright pleaded. Even times it hurt, I did it because I loved her and I knew it was what she wanted. What she needed. It was how she expressed love, even if the desire for it was as foreign to me as it could be. I tried so hard.  
Never hard enough, Fear reminded. Don’t you remember what she said? Right before she died. Always too late. Always too late.  
That wasn’t my fault, he gasped. There was nothing I could do.  
She wanted another child, Fear whispered. She blamed you.  
He was weeping now. I couldn’t, he said through clenched jaws. I couldn’t risk losing a child again. It broke me.  
Yes, yes, Fear took the word and weaponized it. Broken. You’ve always been broken, far before you lost your girl.  
Fear had taken a wrong turn here, and Bright found a moment of strength.  
Stop it! Bright gasped. Stop it. I won’t let you ruin what I have here, like you’ve ruined so many other things. You do not control me any longer.  
But -   
No. Bright’s voice was strong and commanding. No you are not welcome here.  
Fear opened its mouth.  
“Reginald,” the voice broke through the dark veil, like a full moon shining through a crack in the curtains in the middle of the night.  
Bright looked up. “Yes?”  
“Are you alright? I thought, for a moment, that you were crying.”  
Bright felt fear shoot through his chest. “There’s something I need to say,” he said, leaning back and looking George in the face.  
“Again?” George said with a smile. “You didn’t propose to someone else today too, did you?”  
“This is serious, George,” Bright barked.  
George’s face went serious. “What is it?”  
Bright breathed in. “Sex.”  
George’s eyebrows went up. “Sex?”  
“I don’t like… sex,” Bright said hesitantly. “I never have. I’ve never actually wanted to have sex with anyone. It’s not that I don’t love you, please don’t think that, it's just… I don’t want to have sex with you.”  
“Dear god,” George started.  
Bright dipped his head in his hands. “I knew it,” he murmured. “I knew it would make you leave.”  
George grabbed Bright by his shoulders, shaking him slightly so that he looked up. “Don’t be a fool,” he said seriously. “Do you really think there is anything about you that could make me stop loving you? Even if I had such desires can you honestly think so little of me that you think I would leave you to have them fulfilled by someone else?”  
Bright couldn’t help but notice a certain phrase. “Even if you had them?” he asked gently.  
“Yes,” George nodded, slightly breathless. “It just so happens that I’ve never wanted to have sex with anyone either.”  
Bright shot up, so quickly he nearly lost his footing and fell over. “You mean I’ve been agonizing over this for months and you feel the same way I do?”  
“Afraid so, old boy,” George smiled.  
“And when were you going to tell me?” Bright asked sharply.  
George hesitated.  
“You damn hypocrite,” Bright said, suddenly grinning. “You were afraid too!”  
“Well, perhaps I was, a bit,” George flushed.  
Bright shook his head. “We’re a couple of idiots, we are.”  
George laughed. “Come on, love, sit back down and lets enjoy the night. We are engaged after all and we can’t start out engaged life bickering, now can we?”  
Bright hesitated, but in a moment returned to his spot atop George’s lap, his head resting on his chest. George kissed the top of Bright’s head. It still smelled of lavender.  
“I love you,” Bright said quietly.  
George smiled. “I love you too.”


End file.
